God's Story

    The black was what was and it was here and there and only the blackness
    and it was what was around me and no other was in it. It was over me and
    under me and above me and below me and to say what it was, what the
    blackness was, was impossible and there was nothing else to say that it
    was like this or like that. It is difficult to describe that which was     everything there was. There was nothing to distinguish the here from the
    there, nor the before from the after. I use the word "black" but, to tell
    the truth, it was not exactly black. It was not exactly a color and it was
    more than a color. In fact it was no color at all and black is the usual
    word to describe that condition of a certain sort of emptiness. I looked up
    and down and it was the same everywhere. I tried to listen and of course
    there was nothing, not even the smallest hum and the lack of noise was also
    this blackness and the peace that was what was was also this blackness.
    And it was comfortable and I was satisfied in it and I did nothing.
    I was in it and I stretched and felt my body going on and on in every
    direction and it seemed there was no limit to where I began or where I ended.
    I could not see my hands or my feet and of course I had no use for them and
    the blackness was smooth and quiet that engulfed them and there was no end
    to it.

    It was a pleasant feeling.
    But I do not know how long I was there. It was not possible to tell. And then
    I was thinking and I did not bother to think about time. One thought led to
    another and on endlessly and multiplying and to me everything seemed incre-
    dible and wonderful. I am fond of freshness and the unique and everything
    was original. What forms I envisaged! What ideas I had!
    What rare and elegant monsters genuflected through my mind!
    I remembered the simplicity of the blackness that was and I wanted something
    that too was simple and the simplicity severe and more elegant than my
    monsters. And it appeared in it.

      Still, I could not say if it was near my hand or my foot. The light fascina-
    ted me. It was the opposite of what was and it was as if for the first time
    that I used my eyes. And soon other things of lights appeared and there were
    thousands and millions and billions of them and the nothingness was ornamen-
    ted with them. Now there was a hum of vibration that came from the lights and
    it drew great arcs of circles of light around the universe and now there were
    colors and flaming hues thrust boldly into space and there were planets and
    these things were cradles in the endless blackness.

    I was enchanted by the lights and the newness of the things and I could not
    take my eyes away from them. There existed no words to express the exhuberant
    infinity of details and of processes and of transformations of atoms and
    stars that proliferated in rapid jumps of beauty through the thin, wavering
    spaces of the imperturbable abyss. From the smallest bit of a thing to the
    most gigantic formation the flow of change trembled through them and every-
    thing was in a flux of a freshness that had no end.

    I am very curious. All things delight me. It was quite useless to try to find
    something that truly bored me. Yet I must have become tired, or my mind wan-
    dered into the investigation of a certain detail whose fragile potential
    fascinated me. I saw forms that were previously still and now were moving     with a motion and a purpose of their own and they possessed the dream-like
    quality of being able to die.
    I must have fallen asleep.

    The tree awoke me. Its leaves were scratching the window. My body, whose feet
    and arms I could not see, was bathed in sunlight. The sky was blue and the
    white forms in it were clouds and I saw a bird whose feathers were red.
    For several minutes I lay there enjoying the fresh smells of the air and the
    I touched the ripe pimple on my nose.
    Certainly, to be alive was a wonder. To feel, to think, to be aware of the
    life around you. In school I had studied the varied methods of scientists
    and philosophers, who had dissected ideas, cut through the world, using the
    razor of words, while in their turn, scientists, with the passion of their
    instruments and the austere energy of numbers, reconstructed the enchantment
    of the world from mazes of probabilities, the random seesaw of electrons,
    and the directions of the dreamless solutions of their equations written in
    chalk. I followed the ponderously icy and sometimes heated reasoning of
    these dramatic personages and in any case it was a delight to be shown how
    the whims of creation were established by the force of their words or came
    to be by the order of the solutions of their equations, equations which
    shared their economic beauty and compactness with the forms of sea shells.
    Forever I am grateful to these men for the mental pleasures they had shown
    me during the exodus of many afternoons and starless evenings, like the
    pleasure obtained in painting one endless geometric flower or in listening
    to a perfect tone repeated endlessly in the short, dark labyrinthe of the
    inner ear. I had been entertained very expertly, by minds obliged with a
    kind of restless gift, with a ceaseless tossing of ability, to plunge into
    the tropical corridors of an analgesic intricasy.
    Yet I could not hold long these ideas, though elegant like the hard lines
    of rain that lighten the clouds in the sky. I am a simple man and, to tell
    the truth, I have not felt myself this need for the erosion of the world,
    this lip-biting questioning of the stars, that seemed to have driven these
    men of genius, in whom even the rock of sleep must splinter in their dreams
    and they wake with the feeling of holding the wind at their back in their
    bright version of sleep. The discomfort of doubt has passed me by.
    Perhaps it is because I have always believed in God.
    I can not imagine a time when out of spite or discontent I had chosen to be
    blind to Him. Even as a boy I knew there was a God, as I knew there were
    oceans and fish and snakes and birds and tigers, as I knew I was alive.
    Yet people, acting as I wanted, did not see me as a religious boy.
    I thought it was pointless to make a fuss over God, erecting statues,
    cathedrals, repetitions of monumental toys supposed to delight Him.
    What should He care for these things that are like pimples on the vast face
    of this tiny earth?
    Too close to Him to make a show of it, I kept silent.

    I think about Him, at any time, walking in the street, suddenly while read-
    ing a book, when I wake in the morning, at a sound or sight or memory. His
    image touches me like a breath and a prophesy. More exactly, I experience
    an illumination of Him, a whisper in my blood, that makes up the pre-symbols
    and the ghostly alphabet of my thought, the stoneless imagery of my sentence-
    less communication. It is more a sense. A  presence of God, as of the light
    or the dark of the passing day. It is the thing that I breathe in, and exhale
    with my  lungs, that  gives color to my blood, is the  power that powers my
    God is the thought in my mind that never tires me.

    It is fortunate that I do not work now. I stay in my room. I look out of
    my window. I walk through the garden of the park. I eat very little.
    I read. I enjoy the experience of all my senses. I see, touch, hear,
    smell, taste, with such recurrent new delight that I wonder often at the
    truth of my age, for I am no baby or smooth-faced boy. Of course I do not
    remember my birth, but it is a curious thing that no one seems to know when
    I was born. I have asked my mother and she speaks, her lips move, and she
    harkens to me, but the answer is not in the physics of sound, for no number
    reaches me, no conjunction of planets, and she smiles so tenderly in her
    silent figure that I have not asked her again. It is of no great matter
    after all.



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